


Slow

by thegingerbatch (WendyBird)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, John is a romantic, M/M, sherlock is an impatient asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyBird/pseuds/thegingerbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Slowly, love</i>. </p><p>The first time he says it, John watches every line of Sherlock’s body quiver with irritation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agnesanutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnesanutter/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Slow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229972) by [ogawaryoko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogawaryoko/pseuds/ogawaryoko)



_Slowly, love_. 

The first time he says it, John watches every line of Sherlock’s body quiver with irritation. 

It might be the “love.” Sometimes when John says it, Sherlock simply goes still, like he thinks he may have misheard. Sometimes—the best times—he blushes. The worst times, it sets him off on a strop, earns John a lecture about how he can’t expect to hear it back because Sherlock doesn’t  _work_ that way, he just  _doesn’t_. 

Then again, it might be the “slowly.” Because Sherlock only has two speeds. Speed A—mach-eight-with-his-hair-on-fire _—a_ nd speed B—off. Anything in between is tedious. 

Of course, there’s a certain elegance to a back-alley blow job, in the primal one-two punch of Sherlock’s fingers flying over his cock, Sherlock’s moans as he comes over his hand. 

But when Sherlock suggests something new—or, hell, groans it into his ear in the back of a cab, for Christ’s sake ( _I want you to fuck me, he says in his filthiest baritone, and John gives the cabbie an extra tenner to turn a blind eye to the equally filthy kiss Sherlock gets in return_ )—John is understandably wary.

Because some things should not be rushed. Never mind the  _medical_ reasons, the fact is if John Watson is going to fuck Sherlock Holmes, he’s damn well going to take his time and do it right.

So here they are, John lying supine in Sherlock’s bed with the detective straddling his hips, pressing down determinedly, and John gently runs his hand up Sherlock’s trembling thigh.

“Slowly, love,” he murmurs, his breath a low hiss through his teeth.

Sherlock glares down at him. “I am not— _ah_ —a patient man.”

John gives a careful roll of his hips, grimacing a bit as he feels Sherlock sink marginally lower onto his cock. “You are— _oh_ —going to be a very  _sore_  man if you don’t— _Jesus_ —just relax a bit.”

“I’ve done this before.”

“Cheers.”

“I mean, I know what I’m doing.” He lifts up. Sinks down again. And  _oh_ , halfway there now, and God, the heat of him.

“Obviously,” John says, when he can breathe again. 

Sherlock shifts his weight forward, bracing himself with an arm on either side of John’s head. Another downward thrust, and John’s hand snakes its way up to Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss. “Christ,” he mutters against plush lips. “Look at you.”

“Impossible,” Sherlock whispers back, but there’s a faint grin in his eyes. Sweat beads on his brow. 

“Wanker.” 

Sherlock’s reply is one final, decisive movement of hips, and all at once John is surrounded, pinned, the detective’s buttocks flush against his pelvis. 

All the breath leaves John’s lungs in a hushed, “ _Jesus!_ ” 

“Hardly.” Sherlock’s grin is puckish. Charming. Infuriating.

John drops both his hands to grip Sherlock’s hips, holding him still. He immediately begins to squirm, and John suppresses another groan, because God, what did he ever do to deserve a lap full of petulant, impatient, fucking  _beautiful_ —

“ _John_.” Sherlock is pulling at his hands, urging them upward, somewhere they won’t impede his movement. “Come  _on_.”

John lets his gaze drag up the vision atop him: Sherlock’s long legs splayed on either side of him, his balls resting gently on John’s abdomen, the head of his cock gleaming with precome, his pale torso flushed a mottled red with arousal, his damp curls clinging to his cheeks. “Shut up,” he says. “I’m enjoying the view.”

Sherlock moves his hips in an abortive circle, as much motion as he can manage with John holding him captive. John’s eyelids flutter closed, his back arching up in spite of himself.

“Stop  _looking_  at me and  _fuck_  me.”

And oh, it’s tempting. The animal part of John wants to tighten his grip even further on those narrow hips, to drive up into his maddening detective until he has no more words, no sidelong grins or dismissive sneers, to remind him who he belongs to, always, in the end. But that is exactly what Sherlock wants, and just this time, just  _once_ , John doesn’t want to fuck him. He wants something else. 

He’s not as young as he was, but he can still move fast. Sherlock is in the midst of launching a fresh complaint when John topples him sideways—he feels a momentary shred of regret as he pops free, but it’s drowned in grim satisfaction as Sherlock grunts out an indignant “ _Oh_!”

John lets his momentum carry him over, so that their positions are reversed: Sherlock lies on his back, blinking up at him with wide eyes, and John crawls between his legs, kissing his way up the detective’s stomach.

“I asked you,” he says mildly, between kisses, “to shut up.”

Sherlock’s mouth moves, but John captures it with his own before he can form any words. He grips himself with one hand, lines up, and pushes back in. Sherlock gasps against his lips, and John smiles. 

“I’m going to take”—he pulls out—“all the time I like with you”—and thrusts back in lazily—“and you”—he reaches between them to stroke Sherlock’s cock—“are going to let me.”

Sherlock’s lips are still open in a silent oh, his quicksilver gaze gone hazy under lowered lashes. His breathing is heavy. John feels a fleeting moment of victory, but it’s quickly swallowed by something else, something that makes him drop his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. He stops teasing, but his movements are still slow, his thrusts long and deep. He tongues the sweat from Sherlock’s skin, savouring the salt, the raw earthiness of him. 

“John.” Sherlock’s whisper is low. Shattered. Long fingers grip his buttocks, pulling him closer. Long legs wrap around his hips. John licks his way up Sherlock’s neck, his hand on the other man’s cock moving faster now. 

“Please,” Sherlock says. “Please, yes.” More like begging than demanding, now.

“God, Sherlock.” John bites at the skin of his shoulder, fighting to maintain his control. “I could keep you like this for hours.”

And there’s no acerbic retort, no joke about his age or the unlikely possibility of maintaining an erection for that length of time. Sherlock just lifts his chin, inviting John to suck a mark there. He is moving, too—languid thrusts that match John’s rhythm, echo it. It may not be all that remarkable for John to be leading, but hell if it isn’t absolutely mind-blowing to see Sherlock is following.

“Christ,” says John. “You’re incredible, you know that?” His hips snap forward a bit harder. “Stunning.” His thumb rolls over the head of Sherlock’s cock, and the detective’s breathing hitches in his chest. “Absolutely perfect.” He kisses him again, open lips pressed over open lips, breathing each other’s air, panting together. 

“ _John_.” Sherlock’s groan is louder this time. John thrusts in earnest now, his hands falling to the mattress for support. 

“Go on,” John growls. “Touch yourself.”

Sherlock obeys, his fingers stroking himself between them. The sight of it—oh, who is John kidding? Never mind hours; he’ll be lucky if he lasts a few more seconds. John grabs hold of one of Sherlock’s hips to hold him steady as he drives into him.

“Oh, God. Oh, John. I—”

“Yes, go on then, let me see.”

“God, I love you, I  _love_ —”

Sherlock’s orgasm steals his voice, warps his words into a long groan. Then he is pulsing across his own chest, and John is reeling. The sight of him, the sound of those words out of that mouth—John is done for.

His thrusts are frantic, erratic, and damned if Sherlock might not just be sore after all. “Oh, Christ, love—”

He tips over the edge with a final cry, and Sherlock’s hips are still moving, coaxing him through it, even as he winces, his nerves frayed and over-sensitive.

John doesn’t let himself collapse. He holds himself up on shaking arms, staring down into Sherlock’s face. 

“Sherlock.”

The detective’s eyes are closed. “Mmm.”

“You—” John cuts himself off. Sweat is cooling rapidly on Sherlock’s brow, his chest rising and falling, the flush receding from his skin. He looks spent and spoiled and entirely perfect. 

“Never mind,” John says, and kisses his closed lips. Sherlock kisses back absently, mind already half asleep. John rolls off of him, his feet dangling off the mattress. He needs a wash before turning in. But as he shifts his weight to stand, a hand shoots out to grab his arm.

He glances down. Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, his fingers loose around John’s wrist. 

“Not yet,” he says. “Lie here a bit longer.”

“Bossy,” John says.

Sherlock snorts.

“Alright, fine,” John sighs. “A minute more, love.”

This time, eyes still shut, Sherlock Holmes smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as a ficlet on Tumblr for my beautiful beta, **agnesanutter**


End file.
